Bellagio

Jack was rushed out the back of the auditorium where he had just given a very controversial speech.  He was led through an alley guarded by his own personal security team, and into the back of an awaiting limousine.  He and an advisor hopped in the back, the doors slammed shut, and they sped off down the alley. At the end of the alley they approached an angry crowd that had gathered on the main road.  Security guards were trying to hold them back and make a path for the car.

Jack pushed the intercom button to the driver. “Just run them over.” he said.  A second later the limousine slammed into the crowd, crashing into a mass of angry people.  Bodies were thrown into the air and chaos and panic took over.  But after just a few feet the car was brought to a stop, and the crowd rushed it, banging on the windows, jumping on it, and finally smashing through the windshield and violently forcing their way inside.   On the news there were helicopter images showing the car engulfed in flames in the middle of an angry mob.

Jack’s wife, Cynthia, stood in front of the TV, a drink in her hand, her mouth wide open, and her eyes fixed on the images.  “Is this how it ends?” she thought to herself.  She’d always thought she would be the first to die, for she had a weak heart.

A couple of aides entered her suite.  “Mrs. Parker, let’s get you off your feet.” one of them said.  “We have your pills right here.” the other said.

She went with them over to a nearby couch and sat down.  She could still see the TV and starred at it in disbelief.  She took a pill with her cocktail and tried to keep her heart from racing.  A million thoughts circled in her mind, but she couldn’t stay focused on anything. It was all just too overwhelming.  If she had any friends she would have called one, but she was not allowed to have her own friends.  The wife of Jack Parker was only allowed to be the wife of Jack Parker, noting else.  She was his beautiful prop, his accessory, nothing else.  In public she was very good at being the lovely woman on his arm.   Other than the occasional drunken evening when he ventured into her bedroom to abuse her, he ignored her altogether.  People thought she lived like a queen in the lap of luxury, but in reality, she was a prisoner and a piece of property.

Jack had been a lot nicer to her when they were younger and just starting out. She was lively, funny, and charming at parties. Jack was always an asshole, but she could put up with some of that because he was a brilliant genius whose inventions delighted and surprised the world. But as Jack got rich and powerful over the years, he became more abusive to everyone around him, including Cynthia.  In direct proportion to Jack’s fortune and influence, Cynthia, the person, was shut down.  Her lively personality faded away to nothing.  Her days were scheduled and planned and she went through them like a zombie.  She was still beautiful, and sometimes she was brought out for events and ceremonies, but mostly she was ignored, and left to wander the enormous penthouse alone.  After years of this, her mind had been slowly switched off.

She starred at the flaming car on the television. What would happen to her now?  Would the mobs come for her too?  Where would she go?  Would she be taken care of?  Then she started thinking of all arrangements that had to be made – she would need to have a funeral dress made. Jack wouldn’t let her wear black. Then she’d have to go through the headache of the funeral itself – meeting all of those people, and attending all the ceremonies.  She hated her life, especially when she had to be in public.  Really, she wanted to hide in a closet until it was all done, but that was not an option.

Then suddenly she thought of somethings else.  Her husband was dead.  Her asshole husband was dead.  The man who had taken her spirit and trampled her heart was dead.  The source of all her misery –  her captor, her abuser, the man who denied her a life of her own and choaked the willpower out of her, was dead.

She gasped out loud.  She was now the widow of one the world’s richest men. She was free, and had a huge fortune.  She could disappear.

Her thoughts wandered and she thought of a dream she had always had – now she could actually do it.  She could move to the mountains of Italy and live quietly in a private villa overlooking a lake.  She could employ artists and sculptors and gardeners to surround her with beauty, and she could make friends with people who loved to read books and talk about the world.  She could shake the dust off all her dreams and start living again.  Maybe she could start painting, maybe she could start writing.  What would it be like to have friends again?

She took another sip from her cocktail and watched the TV.  Those flames where now her ticket to freedom, and she was finding it suddenly hard to look sad.  She really wanted to burst out with laughter.  She felt like jumping up and dancing.  She felt like skipping the funeral and everything, and heading right that second to the airport. She was absolutely giddy inside. But outwardly she continued to try to look sad.

She took a deep breath. Maybe what she was thinking was wrong. Maybe she should stay and be the strong sad face of Jack’s widow for the world.  A legend had passed, and who was she to selfishly put herself above the grief of the world.  If she left  now, it would look bad.  If she stayed, and got through it all calmly, she would eventually be able to quietly slip away to Italy when the spotlight had stopped shining on her.

She would go to Bellagio and find a waterfront villa with beautiful gardens.  She would take sculpting classes and painting classes, and hire a chef to cook for the dinner parties she would host for all her new creative and dynamic friends. She grinned as she thought about all the possibilities with young Italian men.  She closed her eyes and dreamed of her wonderful new life.  Maybe all of the abuse of the last few years was worth it.  Maybe all the times he grabbed her by the throat and pushed her onto the bed were worth it.

Then her face clinched.  That fucking asshole.  She thought of all of the times he shouted her down and left her trembling in the corner, all of the times he made her feel like shit and belittled her, and all of the times he made her wish she was dead.

She took one deep breath, then another.  Her heart was racing, but she knew how to bring in the calm and get her heart rate down.  Breathing slow and steady would do it.

“Fuck it,” she thought.  “He doesn’t deserve one more minute from me.”  She put down her drink and stood up, then turned to her aides.  “I’m leaving.  Get me a car, I’m going to the airport.”  She walked across the room to the door and reached for her jacket.

Suddenly the door burst open and Jack walked in.  “What?! What?!  You’re dead! I saw it on the TV!”  she said.

“You look like shit,”  he said.  “The guards got me out of the car before they torched it.”

“What?!” she said.  Then, with a huge painful shock that she felt from the top of her head to the tip of her toes, her heart burst and she collapsed on the floor.  Her mind spun and raced in every direction as the life drained out of her.  The last thing she saw was Jack walking away from her.

“Clean up this mess.” He told his aides. “I need a drink.”